


The Eye of the Beholder

by The_Bookkeeper



Series: Shelter [2]
Category: Doctor Who & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Character Study, Introspection, Love Triangles, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-07
Updated: 2013-03-07
Packaged: 2017-12-04 13:21:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,597
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/711205
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Bookkeeper/pseuds/The_Bookkeeper
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jack doesn’t understand Ianto’s fear. Ianto doesn’t understand Jack’s love.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Eye of the Beholder

**Author's Note:**

> Part of a series, but can be read alone. All you really need to know is that the Doctor crashed and burned and ended up at Torchwood Three a few months after Voyage of the Damned for him, and after Sleeper for Torchwood. 
> 
> Takes place one (or two, depending how you count) day(s) after Chapter 10 of Damage Control.

When Ianto arrived at the Hub on Monday morning, it appeared to be empty. He doubted that it really was — while Jack habitually took unlogged excursions during the night, he made a point to be there in the morning, and anyway, his coat was still hanging in his office — but it was slightly eerie to walk in and not be greeted by a shout or a kiss. He swallowed hurt and worry and tried to think what the cause could be as he put the coffee on.   
  
Jack could have gotten immersed in some complicated security issue. He could have found something interesting in the archives. He could have wanted to blow off some steam at the shooting range (though Ianto knew that he much preferred other methods of stress relief). It wasn’t as if he could possibly be lying dead in a ditch somewhere; there were plenty of things that could have made Jack lose track of time —   
  
Time.   
  
The Doctor.   
  
The Doctor was still here — would be here indefinitely, apparently. Jack was probably with him. Jack was  _definitely_  with him, Ianto corrected, remembering the way his sometimes-lover had looked at their newest alien guest. There had been utter adoration in that gaze, and the sort of pain that only came from loving someone so deeply that it hurt.  
  
Ianto wasn’t quite sure how he felt about that.  
  
He was sure that, however he felt, he was  _not_  going to be resentful. The Doctor quite obviously needed someone — needed  _Jack_  — and if Jack hadn’t jumped to his aid, then he wouldn’t have been the man Ianto knew and loved. This was going to be difficult enough for the captain without Ianto adding something as petty as his own jealousy to the mix.  
  
With that in mind, Ianto put on the kettle for tea, and poured a mug of fresh coffee for Jack. He’d leave it on his desk, and hope that he emerged from wherever he was before it got cold.  
  
That was what he planned to do, anyway, but he stopped short in the doorway of Jack’s office, his grip tightening on the mug.  
  
There were sounds coming from below him. From Jack’s bedroom. For a moment he was dreadfully sure that he had been wrong about the physicality of the relationship between Jack and the Doctor, his resolve not to be resentful suddenly much more difficult to maintain — but, no. He was quite familiar with the sounds Jack made during sex, and these were very different. The breathless gasps weren’t sounds of pleasure, but rather of terrible, overwhelming pain.  
  
Someone was sobbing — sobbing like they’d never stop, like they couldn’t stop — and it wasn’t Jack.  
  
Ianto knew it wasn’t Jack, both because he would not let himself believe that Jack could ever make such pathetic, broken noises, and because he could now discern Jack’s voice, speaking softly and soothingly.  
  
“It’s alright; it’s going to be alright. Breathe, that’s it. Just breathe. I’m here. You’re safe.”  
  
“I’m sorry . . . I’m so sorry . . .” The words were choked and slightly muffled. The Doctor — because that was who it was, choking and sobbing and gasping for air — was probably clinging to Jack, face buried in his shoulder or chest. Distantly, Ianto registered that maybe he should have felt jealous about that.  
  
“Shh, I know. I know, and I forgive you. It’s okay.”  
  
“Everything — everything burnt . . . and the silence — and he — but I couldn’t —”  
  
“It wasn’t your fault, alright? It wasn’t your fault.”  
  
“It’s so  _empty_  . . .”  
  
“Shh. It’ll be okay. Sleep, Doc. It’ll be okay.” Jack said it like a fact, but Ianto knew it for what it was. A prayer, a hope, a wish.   
  
“Please . . . please . . . don’t leave me.”  
  
“Never.” It sounded like a solemn vow, like a statement of universal law, like so much more than a promise.  
  
The Doctor didn’t speak again, his ragged sobs gradually fading into irregular breathing as Jack continued to murmur soothing nothings. Ianto knew that he should leave, that he wasn’t meant to be here, but he was frozen to the spot. He couldn’t  _think_ , let alone move.   
  
“Ianto.”  
  
He jumped at Jack’s voice, soft and tired.  
  
“Sorry,” he said, or tried to say, but his mouth was dry, his throat tight, and all he managed was a strangled sort of sound.  
  
“Come here,” ordered Jack. Automatically, Ianto obeyed, setting the now-lukewarm coffee on the desk and moving over to the hole in the floor which led down to Jack’s quarters. “No, all the way here,” Jack clarified, a hint of amusement warming his exhausted tone. “There’s plenty of room,” he added, when Ianto hesitated.  
  
Room wasn’t really what Ianto was worried about, but he descended the ladder anyway, pausing awkwardly at the bottom as he took in the scene in front of him. Jack was actually the least dressed of the duo in an undershirt and boxers, but it was the Doctor who looked naked. Stripped to his t-shirt and trousers, he looked vulnerable and exposed. He twitched and whimpered in his sleep, and Jack stroked his hair in an unconscious gesture of comfort.  
  
“We won’t bite,” Jack said, his smile a mixture of teasing and sympathy as he gestured to the free space beside him. Ianto sat awkwardly, relaxing almost involuntarily as Jack pressed a gentle kiss to his lips.   
  
It felt strange to be kissing Jack when half of him was wrapped around another man, but not nearly as strange as it should have. That tended to be the way of things, with Jack.  
  
Jack sighed a little as he pulled away. He looked exhausted, and there was nothing physical about it. Ianto wanted to tell him that it would be alright — that  _the Doctor_  would be alright — but Jack had heard and given too many of those empty reassurances for them to mean anything to him. Instead, Ianto only said,  
  
“The others will be in soon. I can tell them not to bother you.”  
  
“Yeah,” said Jack, his eyes shifting to the Doctor even as he began to massage the base of Ianto’s neck. “I don’t want him to wake up alone.”  
  
There was a not-quite-comfortable pause, filled with the very pleasant sensation of Jack’s fingers easing the tension from his muscles and the disconcerting, piteous sounds of the Doctor’s restless slumber. The conflicting emotions were enough to make Ianto feel ill, and he was very glad when Jack spoke again.  
  
“I was thinking that you could show him the archives, when he’s feeling better.”  
  
Ianto tensed again, biting back an automatic refusal. The archives were  _his_  place, his haven of sanity and control in the madness of the Hub. The Doctor was the very antithesis of sanity and control, even now — especially now — and he was already in Ianto’s life and his thoughts and his lover’s bed —  
  
Ianto looked from Jack’s tired, hopeful eyes to the Doctor’s pathetic, shivering form, and found himself nodding.  
  
“Alright. When I get the time.”  
  
~~~  
  
It was a week later, and the Doctor was sleeping again — proper sleep, not the restless, nightmare-ridden dozing in which Ianto had previously seen him engage. Apparently seven days with no sleep and only the food which Jack practically shoved down his throat was enough to exhaust even a Time Lord. He was now curled peacefully on the sofa beside Jack, and the sight was strangely heartwarming.  
  
So, of course, it couldn’t last.  
  
Alien crises waited for no man, not even the Universe’s shattered savior and the man who was trying desperately to repair him. Torchwood may have managed to limp along without Jack for a while, but they had quickly grown dependent on him upon his return, and now Owen was growling at Jack to get his arse in gear before they lost the fucking signal again. Jack’s gaze darted indecisively from the Doctor to the frantically beeping alarms, and Ianto made a split-second decision.  
  
“I’ll stay with him.”  
  
“Thank you,” said Jack, even as he sprung to his feet and pulled on his coat in a single, fluid movement. He was out the door before Ianto even had a chance to register what he had just gotten himself into.  
  
Ianto turned off the alarm, adjusted the blanket which had slipped from the Doctor’s shoulder, and put on the kettle for when he woke. He sat down in Owen’s chair, and sighed.   
  
Jack thought that it was fear which made him uncomfortable around the Doctor. Jack was wrong — or at least, he wasn’t exactly right. Ianto  _was_  afraid of the Doctor (as, he was certain, any perceptive and not wildly self-confident being should have been), but that wasn’t what bothered him. He was used to being afraid — of hostile aliens or his own emotions or even Jack, on occasion. What bothered him was that Jack absolutely could not understand his fear.  
  
 _“Ianto, he **likes**  you,”_ Jack had said, as if that made anything better. As if people only ever hurt each other intentionally. As if it hadn’t been the gods’ favor which had doomed Daphne and Io; Calypso’s love which had trapped Odysseus.   
  
It was best for mere mortals to avoid the attention of the deities, nominally positive or otherwise. Ianto understood that, and, when he met dark brown eyes filled with power and pain, he knew that the Doctor did, as well. Jack, though, would never, ever allow himself to see that.  
  
And Ianto couldn’t blame him for that, watching the Doctor as he began to writhe in his sleep. If he had had the same capacity for self-delusion which Jack possessed in regards to the Doctor (as was the way with infatuation), he probably would have convinced himself that this brilliant, broken alien was exactly what he appeared to be — blameless and defenseless, a victim of circumstance and malice.  
  
Ianto knew better. The Doctor was far too strong to allow anyone else to break him so utterly. To some extent or another, he had done this to himself — and the Doctor was not one to allot punishment lightly.  
  
Ianto was brought out of his musings as the Doctor jerked awake with a yelp. For a moment, the Time Lord’s face was open and his eyes unguarded, and the alien emotion which flashed across them was nothing so harmless as fear. An instant later it was tucked away again, and the Doctor looked ill and pale and human.  
  
 _Mimicry_ , Ianto thought. Something deadly posing as a weaker counterpart. He wondered whether it was a learned behavior on the Doctor’s part, or just instinct. He knew that he would never ask.  
  
“Would you like some tea?” he asked, and the Doctor nodded silently.   
  
The Time Lord was frowning slightly as he accepted the teacup a few moments later.  
  
“Jack?” he inquired, his voice slightly hoarse from lack of use. He hadn’t spoken days — not during working hours, anyway. If he was more talkative at night, Jack didn’t say.  
  
“He had to go out,” said Ianto. “He’ll be back soon.”  
  
The Doctor nodded, avoiding his eyes and swallowing hard. His grip had gone white-knuckled on his cup, and he was trembling again. Jack hadn’t left his side all week, unless he was safely tucked away in the TARDIS. Ianto had no idea how the Doctor would handle the captain’s absence now. He didn’t think that it was a good idea to leave him as he was, silent and brooding.  
  
Searching for a distraction, he recalled a promise he had made to Jack a week ago. He swallowed his reluctance, and asked.  
  
“Do want to see the archives?”  
  
~~~  
  
Somewhere in the back of his mind, Ianto was slightly embarrassed at the way he hovered as the Doctor descended the ladder. Mostly, he was just thinking about the frailness in the Doctor’s frame, the tremor in his hands, and what Jack would say if he returned to find the only man he truly admired with a concussion due to Ianto’s misjudgment.   
  
Fortunately, the Doctor made it to the floor without mishap. When he turned around, his face lit up in a grin which very nearly reached his eyes (but not quite).  
  
“This is brilliant!” he exclaimed, taking in the rows upon rows of shelves, all filled with dusty artifacts from the past, the future, and halfway across the Universe. Everything which fell into Torchwood’s hands, whether it came through the Rift or was confiscated from visiting aliens, ended up down here eventually, except the things Jack kept in the vault. “Insanely dangerous, mind,” the Doctor continued, moving forward. “It breaks about fifty guidelines and at least one Law of Time — but still, it’s brilliant.”  
  
“ . . . . Thank you.” That had evidently been intended as a complement, and Ianto chose to take it as such, despite its slightly worrying implications. “I can explain the cataloguing system . . .”  
  
Ianto led the Doctor to the back of the room, bypassing the extensive weaponry section in favor of something more benign.   
  
“Back here is where we keep the things which we think are used for entertainment — puzzles, games, that sort of thing. It’s all alphabetical, in theory, but we’ve had to invent names for most of it.”  
  
The Doctor reached for an object — something glowing and white which existed in too many dimensions and hurt to look at — and hesitated.  
  
“May I?” he questioned, glancing over his shoulder.  
  
“Sure,” said Ianto, hoping that he was just agreeing to let the Doctor play with the object and not to anything reality-warping.   
  
The Doctor moved to pick up the object and Ianto braced himself, recalling that this particular piece tended to make jarring, irregular sounds when handled. Indeed, there was a burst of static as soon as the Doctor’s fingers brushed it — but it leveled out almost instantly into a high, clear note.   
  
Ianto watched in amazement as the Doctor ran his fingers over the impossible surface with practiced elegance. There were a couple false starts — another flash of white noise, a rush of dissonance — but soon he was coaxing a shimmering melody from it; as delicate and complex as the dance which his fingers were performing.   
  
When Ianto managed to shake off the awe and force his mind into some semblance of coherency, he had three thoughts in quick succession. First:  _Good god, it’s beautiful_. Second:  _The man can do anything_. Third:  _Good god, **he’s**  beautiful_.  
  
Ianto had already known that the Doctor was attractive. He could see how someone like Jack could be drawn in by his paradoxical power and neediness, and objectively, he had to admit that there was something physically appealing in his fine features and expressive eyes. It wasn’t until this instant, though, that he had any idea how Jack could look at him the way he did, as if he was the most incredible thing in the Universe.  
  
The Doctor was smiling, not manic and desperate but warm and delighted and genuine. His face crinkled around his eyes and mouth and it made him look younger, somehow; aged rather than ageless. His eyes were bright and alive for the first time since Ianto had met him, all because he had made a four-dimensional instrument sing.  
  
Just as Jack would never fully comprehend Ianto’s fear of the broken, kindhearted man who was the Doctor, Ianto knew that he would never fully comprehend Jack’s love for the terrifying, alien being which was also the Doctor. In this moment, though, hearing the Doctor use his frightening power to play a pretty tune on a forgotten artifact in Torchwood’s cellar — watching him smile with child-like glee at his accomplishment —   
  
In this moment, Ianto didn’t need to.


End file.
